Con Affetto
by yadon
Summary: Music has the power to inspire, to express what words can not. It's why Max has always loved it, and why he's thrilled when his daughter also takes an interest in it, especially during such a difficult time in their lives. When Max visits Selphia, however, he learns music has yet another ability: to help heal. [rated for grief/mentions of eating disorders; for RFSpringFever2015]
1. prelude

__This was written as part of tumblr's 2015 Rune Factory Spring Fever event, for the prompt "departing on and/or returning from a journey". Well, this turned out to be more about the journey itself but I think it still fits in nicely. It was a journey writing it, at any rate.__

* * *

i. ****Largo****_ – ___in a broad, dignified manner__

* * *

Max could not believe his nose.

Not that he'd ever admit it to Father, but the cherry blossoms here in Selphia were even more fragrant than those in his beloved Alvarna.

That could, possibly, be owed to the fact that there was no tang of ocean salt taking up permanent residence in the breeze, like in Alvarna.

Or it simply could have been that he was misremembering. That Alvarna's cherry blossoms really were the superb specimen, only he hadn't the time to take in their comforting sweetness, when his recent weeks had been nothing but a potpurri of death and decay; the mustiness of the church during her funeral; the overly-clean scent of the clinic, so many hours there receiving comfort from Rosalind and Ray, Sera and Serena.

Any lesser man would have holed himself up in his room, let a calloused shell harden around him. But as a de Sainte-Coquille, Max did not have time for such nonsense that would tarnish the image that accompanied the name he wore like a crown.

So it was that Max had ventured outside of Alvarna to pay a visit to Cousin Porcoline - that is, __Father's__ cousin, but dash it all with such trivalities. A visit of pleasure (which Porcoline was aware of), yes, but one also of urgent business (which Porcoline __wasn't__ aware of) and for his most important associate, no less.

Leann de Sainte-Coquille had, after all these years, finally shown interest in playing the piano Max had received as a wedding present from Uncle Jasper.

She desired, __needed__, an instructor, and an instructor Max would find her. His dear friend Barrett had informed Max of a rather talented musician who entertained the patrons of Cousin Porcoline's restaurant, so Max saw no feasible reason why this __virtuoso__ wouldn't jump at the chance to share her passion with his daughter for twice the salary that Porcoline gave her, plus free room and board.

And if this musician was anything like Barrett had described, Max planned on also extending her an offer to teach at the Alvarna Academy.

To Max's surprise, Barrett was on board with this idea, which was no small feat. The mayor's son had even planned to come to Selphia a day ahead of his normal schedule, to explain the other merits of Alvarna's school to this prospective teacher– or, rather, instruct Max what to tell her, since Barrett didn't have what one would call "a way with words" (or "charm" or "common-level social skills," or, Max could have continued had Barrett not gruffed at him to shut the hell up, proving Max's point).

As he passed by the townspeople, Max greeted them with the winning smile he would use on the musician. He always flashed strangers a flawless smile regardless, but in this instance it was more because he was woefully out of practice in the smiling department, not having the resolve to bother with it as much in front of his friends and family in the past weeks (but enough to get by).

Upon seeing his relative waiting at the restaurant entrance, Max radiated even brighter.

"Maxie!" Porcoline crushed him into a hug, and Max's smile twisted into a grimace, both from the pain of being squeezed so tightly and the pain of the image of Julia that flickered in his mind, screeching that the sudden rough contact had wrinkled one of her favorite of Max's shirts.

"H-Hello, Porcoline." Max (gracefully, of course) broke from Porcoline's hug, and smoothed his shirt down. "It's been some time!"

It had indeed. The last time Max had seen Cousin Porcoline, Rosalind had been a blemish-covered teen mortified about having to wear a __brassiere__for the first time, while Max had been sporting frightening metal braces that, unbelieveably, had rendered him quieter than Dorothy for a couple years.

Dark days, they'd been.

"I'd love to catch up right this very minute, but there's a festival today that I'm almost late for! But I waited __just for you__, Maxie, before I took off; I wanted to see if you'd like to join __moi, __and come meet everyone. I wouldn't wait around to ask just anyone, you know~. Only family!"

Max wasn't sure if that was true, or only __partly__ true. Was Porcoline being so generous because Max was the son of his cousin whom he hadn't seen in quite some time, or because Max was the __widower__ son of his cousin whom he hadn't seen in quite some time?

Well, either way...

"Oh, I'm fine, Porcoline. I'm a little tired from my trip, anyway. Besides, I'd much rather meet everyone in a less..." Max motioned airily with the hand not gripping the handle of his suitcase. "...__hectic__ setting."

"If you insist! I promise you a most delicioso-ho-ho-ho meal when I return. Don't miss me for too long in my absence!" Porcoline gave a flutter of his meaty fingers, before heading off. "Ta!"

Only after he ascended the stairs and entered his room was Max struck with how __silent__ the whole place was, hauntingly so. That the restaurant was empty should have been explanation enough to Max, but it wasn't.

If he were to seek further reasoning, it was because he was in Selphia, not Alvarna, so this foreign feeling was of multiple definitions.

But the answer that made most sense to him was that this was a mansion belonging to a de-Sainte Coquille, and by his own personal experience, such a building was not something Max associated with being __empty. __Or hadn't, anyway, not until that fateful day a little over a month ago, when a piece of his heart was carved out and created a Julia-shaped emptiness that throbbed deep in his chest no matter how filled with friends and family his manor was.

And this was what he hadn't told Barrett about when proposing this venture, because he was disturbed by it himself: that part of him wanted to believe Julia's absence would somehow...not be filled, but substituted for, by fulfilling this wish of Leann's.

Changing out of his wrinkled shirt and into loungewear, Max considered how absurd it was to assume anyone – especially Barrett, of all people – would be judgmental of him wanting to do whatever it took to make his only daughter happy.

But there was a very real reason why he didn't see it proper to go into any more depth than he had.

Because that's what Julia had felt she was doing – going to whatever lengths necessary to demonstrate how much she loved and adored Leann. And it had killed her.

* * *

ii. ****Staccato****_ – ___with each sound or note sharply detached or separated from each other__

* * *

Beauty sleep was a tedious thing, and Max had trained himself long ago into taking naps that lasted exactly forty-five minutes, and not a second more or less.

Even if he hadn't woken on his own, he would have likely been disrupted from his sleep by the disturbance in the hall right outside his door.

Expecting it to be Porcoline, he didn't even bother changing out of his pajamas. Opening the door, however, he was met with someone as different as Porcoline as he could have imagined.

A young lady – no an elf; there was no mistaking the pointed ears poking out from between long tresses of hair a much duller blonde than his own – was darning herself as she picked up a broom and dustpan and every other cleaning supply that was scattered on the floor around her.

Never one to ignore someone in need – especially a female someone – Max stepped over to her, and reached down to retrieve a fallen bottle of floor cleaner. "Are you alright there, miss?"

He'd been in plain sight, but reacted as if she hadn't seen him until this moment, letting out a quiet but startled "Oh!" before taking the floor cleaner from him and cradling it awkwardly her one arm.

"Thanks. But don't worry about it, it's my own fault. I shouldn't have tried to bring all this -" she nodded to the broom tucked against her other elbow, the clump of rags in her hand. "-up in one trip. You must be Porco's...cousin, right? I wanted to try and clean up a bit around here before you arrived. I even cut out of the Festival a bit early, but I guess..." She closed her sentence with a shrug and a sigh. "Sorry if it's kind of a pigsty. Porco's impossible to keep up with some days."

Max's eyes scanned over her again. Judging by her attire and the way she'd referred to Porcoline, he'd never had guessed she was the __help. __From what Max remembered though, Porcoline tended to live life a bit faster-and-looser than the rest of the de Sainte-Coquille clan, so perhaps it shouldn't be so surprising that his cousin's maid was dressed so eccentrically.

"I see. My maid Cecilia is the same way with my own father – even after many years with us, there's still times when she falls behind a bit. So I try to stay as neat as possible, you see – lessen her load, so to speak. She has a family of her own now, it's the least I could do, right? I promise you I'll do my best to stay as tidy as possible during my short stay here, make life easy for you– or easy as can be with Cousin Porcoline."

"Uh...what...? Er..." The elf blinked at him, unable to form any sort of decent response. "That's...um..."

Goodness, for a de Sainte-Coquille maid she was uncharacteristically inarticulate. Max opted for a different approach; perhaps formally introducing himself as more than just "Porcoline's cousin" – showing he wasn't anyone to be intimidated by - would ease her nerves a bit.

"By the by, I'm Max." He gave a slight, formal bow, which very few people other than himself could do while in their pajamas without looking utterly preposterous. "Max de Sainte-Coquille, of the Alvarna de Sainte-Coquilles. And it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss...?"

"Margaret...?" Her whole being – posture, expression, voice – was tentative. Cecilia had been the same way when she arrived in Alvarna, which likely had been taught to her by Tabatha – not to be too friendly with their masters, or their masters' friends. He deduced that this Margaret here was likely inexperienced, and had been trained in similar fashion, but with a little __push __and a bit more reassurance__,__ she would become to Porcoline what Cecilia had become to him and Rosalind: a trusted friend and confidant.

"You don't sound very sure of that. If you don't have conviction in your name, what __do__ you have?" He indicated with his hand for her to ry again. "Come now, don't make me forget your name already, Miss...Miss...?"

"No, I...Yes! My name's Margaret!" If could've just been the dim lighting playing tricks on him, but Max swore Margaret's confusion had slipped into something more...agitated.

"Much better." A piece of Max's hair had fallen across his brow, and he casually smoothed it back. "Now, Margaret, I know I __just__ told you I'd try to avoid giving you any more work, but I do have one very teensy request." He indicated just how teensy by holding his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart. "Just a moment."

Stepping back into his room, he first slipped into the robe he brought – really, it wasn't appropriate to be in his sleepwear in front of a maid – and grabbed the shirt that Porcoline had previously rumpled.

In less than a minute, he was out in the hall again and Margaret was not – she was next door, in Porcoline's room, the first place he checked. "Oh, there you are. Now, here's what I need done...Margaret?"

Like Cecilia whenever she was cleaning, Margaret hummed as she did so, her back turned to Max. And Ceci had always been able of taking instruction even in the middle of her various elven tunes, so Max didn't see why Margaret couldn't; elves were very fascinating and capable beings.

"So, I just need this - " he unfurled the shirt, which was a luxurious royal purple. "- ironed, or steamed, or however it is one gets wrinkles out of silk."

He carefully draped the shirt over the back of the chair at Porcoline's desk, waiting for Margaret to give some sort of acknowledgement, but she only continued to vigorously wipe a rag along a windowframe.

"Er, you needn't hurry or anything, but I do need it by tomorrow night. For tonight, I'll wear something else for dinner with Porcoline, but I __am__dining with a good friend of mine tomorrow. Truthfully, I don't care about fashion all that much, but it would be nice to have it available to wear, you understand?"

__Truthfully__, he was hoping to wear it to make a good impression on the musician tomorrow. Never in several of their lifetimes would Barrett care about Max's appearance. Max could wear one of his cousin Evelyn's peculiar cabbage-leaf ruffled tops with an accompanying tie fashioned from pink turnips and Barrett would give him the same bored, blank stare he always did.

At last, Margaret turned to face him, and with a scowl marring her fine features. "Do it yourself."

"__Pardon__?!" He'd never been backtalked like this, by anyone working for his extended family. Even Maerwen, otherwise prickly as could be, was complicit when it came to her duty as a maid.

"Do. It. __Yourself!__ I'm __not__ a maid!"

"You're...wait, you're not?" But I thought...since you're..."

"Because I'm an __elf__?" She picked up the broom that was resting against desk, and tilted the handle out, forcing Max to move aside. "You automatically thought I work __for__ Porco because I'm an elf, because what else would I do but work for a human, right?"

"No, I thought...well, you have cleaning supplies!" He gestured to what she was holding. "I assumed...L-Listen here, this isn't fair – most elves work in some sort of trade or another, you can't just act like I'm the first person to ever make such an assumption!"

"Well, you're the first person __I've__ met that's been such a supreme __jerk __about it." She stood in the doorway, blocking his path off from any sort of exit – not that he was finished with this conversation by any means.

Max let out a dismissive breath through his nose. He heard much more scathing insults from Jake weekly, if not daily. "So what are you doing up here, if not working for Porcoline?"

"Oh, let's see..." Margaret feigned being deep in thought for a moment. "Maybe I'm __helping__ Porco out because he's a __good person__ and I want to repay him for his kindness, for giving me a place to play my music for everyone! You know what that is, __Max__ __de Sainte-Coquille? __Kindness__? __It's when someone cares about someone other than themselves."

__She__ was the musician, the one he was so keen on seeking out and hiring away from Porcoline. Well, she __had__ been, until she'd made an accusation so __baseless__, so __indescribably__ maddening that he was seconds from changing his mind.

"I will __very kindly__ ask you to __never__ accuse me of being unable to care for another person, Margaret." His countenance did not falter; in fact, like his voice, it was dangerously even.

It was a tone he took in only the most extreme of cases, like when a foreign duke had grown too pushy about wanting to court Rosalind, or when Jake __really thought__ that he could get away with lying about having called Leann a nosy little brat, and making her cry. Max was not threatening,__never__ threatening. Only with a certain air of authority that as of yet, but one person had dared disagree with: Julia, when he told her that she __needed__ to stop this. That she __needed__ to seek help, __real__ help, more than he could give her.

Margaret would not be the second. She didn't respond, only glared at him piercingly enough to take down a Buffamoo.

__Well__, then! She could be however mad she wanted. It wasn't as if being mistook for a maid were an insult in the first place, but to Margaret it had been, and Max had apologized for it (in not so many words, but the implication was there)! __She__ was the one who'd purposely insulted him after only knowing him for a couple minutes!

After another heavily silent second, Margaret turned with a huff and marched out of the room, leaving behind a number of her cleaning supplies set haphazardly on and around Porcoline's desk.

Max gently picked up his shirt from the chair, studied the fabric both with his eyes and his fingers. As if that would somehow invoke some vague recollection of how Cecilia had managed to keep it in such pristine condition.

__"Do it yourself."__ Because, __right,__ it was as easy as Margaret had demanded of him.

He was __already__ busy doing – and __learning__ to do- so much by himself, he hadn't the time nor energy for something as mundane as laundry. Taking over for his father, being a single parent (Rosalind and Ray helped, of course, but at the end of the day it was Max who needed to be the most important influence in Leann's life), and now one more thing to add to the list: how to convince a musician he'd outrageously offended to come give his daughter piano lessons.

Well, he'd figure it all out, one way or another. He was a de Sainte-Coquille, after all; he didn't have much of a choice.


	2. verse

iii. ****Andante****_ – ___walking speed; a leisurely pace__

* * *

Given Porcoline's cheerful mood and the four-course breakfast waiting for Max when he came downstairs the next morning, there was no indication that Margaret had informed her guardian of their unfortunate introduction.

Porcoline was as chatty as could be, even after the previous night having talked Max's ear off about current events in Selphia – the Bean Festival, for one, which sounded like a festival Max would never want to participate in. Being voluntarily pelted by beans was somewhere on the dignity scale alongside the time he'd had to lay on his stomach, stretch out over the edge of the dock to the point of almost falling in himself, and retrieve the stuffed Pomme Pomme that Sera had accidentally dropped into the water.

Today's topic was more about their family: Beatrix's recent success in striking treasure (well, a huge chunk of scrap ore that the town's blacksmith had paid her handsomely for; close enough) Cousin Sofia's invitation asking her family to **not come** to Sharance for her father's fiftieth birthday and to be sure to **tell him all about it**.

As they conversed, Max politely ate small helpings of what Porcoline laid out for him, even though he'd never been one to have much of an appetite this early in the morning. Porcoline finished off the rest with a lot of gusto and absolutely no shame. Except for a portion of omelet rice.

"Come, Maxie!" Porcoline scooped it out onto Max's plate. "I made it special for you, with only the finest Mamadoodle eggs! Eat up!"

Max didn't know a single person who didn't at least somewhat like omelet rice (Porcoline, obviously, more than somewhat), so he guessed that was why Porcoline had played it safe in cooking it up for breakfast. He was more than satisfied with what he'd already ate, but he couldn't just decline such a kind gesture on Porcoline's part.

So he ate it, neither tasting it nor particularly enjoying it, thanks to the thoughts that were crossing his mind.

How many times had he tried to convince Julia to have just one bite of the pie Cecilia baked? To allow Leann seconds on dessert – just this once? And every time she'd gotten so...__irritated__. Was there something he'd done __wrong__ in his approach?

"So what's the agenda for today?" Porcoline asked, snagging Max away from his horrid, unanswerable questions.

"I don't know, I expect just shop for souvenirs for the family until Barrett arrives." Maybe he could also pick something up to extend as an olive branch towards Margaret. A good night's sleep had tapered his frustration a considerable amount, and he was willing to give it another shot. De Sainte-Coquilles did not admit defeat so easily, if at all.

"Mmm, I'd love to show you around but I need to prepare a birthday spread for Clorica. Her birthday's tomorrow but they're having the dinner tonight, and everyone in town will be here! You and Barrett should come too!"

He wasn't about to speak for Barrett, but since the two of them had already planned to have dinner tonight at the restaurant, it was a foregone conclusion that – "Of course. We'd be glad to attend."

"Wonderful!"

Max had grown so used to Cecilia clearing the table that he didn't think to help Porcoline at first, when his cousin bused the table clean of the dirty pans. But after Porcoline returned for Max's plate and silverware, Max shooed him off. "Oh, goodness, no. Let me, Porcoline."

He carried the plates towards the kitchen himself, and was halfway there when he spotted the piano up on the stage.

He'd __seen__ it, of course – it was impossible to miss something so __grand__, but he hadn't thought much on it. Being this close to it now, however – it was magnetic, begging for him to play, if just once. His piano at home, he resisted its pull, had for some time by coming up with one excuse or another. Usually it was the excuse about how the arts were too frivolous for a de Sainte-Coquille to invest as much time into as Max would have liked.

But seeing Leann so interested in it now, pouring herself into practicing and asking Max to listen to the simple melodies she managed to teach herself instead of being as miserable and moody as she'd been initially when Julia had passed? "Frivolous" was hardly the term he'd use.

Approaching the piano, Max allowed his fingers to travel along the elegant frame and grace the fine ivory keys. He pressed on Middle C slowly, that it gave off no tone.

"You like it?" Porcoline asked, picking up the dishes off the counter where Max had set them down. "It's for Meggy. She's quite the talent, brings in all the customers!"

"I'm sure she is." She must be, if even Barrett was mesmerized enough by her playing that he thought to share it with Max. "You wouldn't mind if__I __played, would you?"

"Oh, no, go right ahead! I didn't know you played, Maxie."

No, no one did, other than his immediate family and Cecilia. The piano that Leann was now so fond of spending hours with? Everyone assumed that it was there for show, a symbol of how much money the de Sainte-Coquilles had. Being able to afford something so magnificent and letting it sit around unused. How surprising it would have been to discover that Max had actually specifically __asked__ Uncle Jasper for one.

It'd been a few years since he'd last played, but the melodies came back to him at once. Without having to think on it, he promptly began the Veethoben piece that was one of the first he'd learned, and one of the songs he'd heard Leann stiltedly attempting during the past few weeks.

His fingers sailed across the keys as if of their own accord, and the world around Max narrowed to just the tune, the sweet intertwining of the bass chords and the treble scales. With each note, the vibration of the piano's strings seemed to pulse up right through the keys, his fingertips and into his very soul.

The song ended abruptly, and when it did, Max stared at where the sheet music would have sat, had he used any. His heart was thudding fast, as if he'd just (hah, just the thought!) run clear across town. It took him a few seconds to realize what he was hearing was not his own heartbeat in his ears, but Porcoline applauding.

"Keep playing! That was splendiferous!"

No, he was only average at best, although certainly far more skilled than anyone else in his family, enough that Julia and Rosalind had always complimented him on his playing.

But there was something refreshing about Porcoline's response. His enthusiasm, maybe, seeing as how Max had forgotten that life had aspects worth being excited about. So he obliged, this time beginning a little Wershgin number, decidedly the most advanced arrangement he had memorized.

He closed his eyes, dissolving entirely into the song. Music had always been a sort of passion for him, but not one he'd been able to nurture to its fullest. Why? Because it wasn't anything worth pursuing – that is, what could be gained by him having such a hobby?

Music – the arts in general, really - was something many in his social circles viewed as an escape, entertainment. And it __was__, but to Max it was one of the few times he was permitted to convey his feelings to the fullest, was allowed to take off the mask that came with his family's reputation and name.

It was also one of the few things he associated with Julia's __happiness, __the way she looked at him so earnestly content when he would play for her. Pure happiness, not the artificial kind she'd worn for the sake of everyone else. The same sort Max wanted to see on Leann's face when he told her that he was able to acquire a teacher for her, and the same sort that had been missing for too long, for either of them.

His whole perception of what __mattered__ had been significantly transformed, so perhaps Leann would end up being mocked by others the way Evelyn was with her clothing designs that were more oddities than they were wearable garments, or whispered about at parties like Electra, who opted to do her own maid's work more than half the time.

But Leann would also, Max hoped, be nonetheless confident and _secure_ with herself, which she was far from now.

"Bravo!" Another round of applause from his cousin as the song wound to its finish. "He's good, isn't he, Meggy?"

Max blinked. He'd been so entranced in playing, he hadn't taken any notice that, at some point, his audience had expanded. Turning his head, he found Margaret staring at him so blankly that Barrett could have been considered expressive by comparison.

"Max, this is Margaret. Meggy, this is my cousin Herman's son, Max!"

Margaret's eyes were locked on Max. "We've met," she said before Max could greet her pretending they hadn't.

If Porcoline sensed any tension on Margaret's end, he didn't show it. "Oooh, that makes this even easier! Would you mind showing Maxie around town, show him where he can pick up some presents for his lovely family? I've got to get started on Clorica's dinner!"

"But...!" Finally taking her gaze off Max, Margaret gaped at Porcoline in disbelief. "You told me you needed help around here! You better not be trying to get me out of here in order to gobble down half of Clorica's dinner!"

"Bwah?! Never! And you __would__ be a help, showing Maxie around town. Perhaps you two could talk about music and the like?~ I'm sure Max has plenty to share. Please, Meggy?" How Porcoline could have been so sure, Max had no clue, but he was under the impression that there were ulterior motives behind his request to Margaret.

"Porco! But..I...I've only been here a couple months, I couldn't tell him as much about Selphia as you -" Margaret started to protest, but Max stood from the piano bench, walking over to the two of them.

"Now now, don't argue. I think it's a fine idea. I'd be honored to have you as my tour guide, Miss 'Meggy'."

"Margaret," she corrected him sternly, with a look that told Max she didn't care much __what__ he thought. Sighing heavily, she spared a glance at Porcoline. "Okay, Porco. For __you__, I'll do it."

* * *

Max was far more skilled in making small talk than he was at the piano, but even that proved difficult as Margaret and him made their way around the town of Selphia with Margaret giving predominantly one or two word responses to any questions Max had (which he was honestly thankful for, when they passed the bathhouse, as it wasn't an establishment he wanted to linger around for too long).

But when he asked Margaret what sort of seeds were currently stocked at the Flower Shop (perhaps something different than what was sold in Alvarna? he'd hoped to himself, wanting to make Julia's grave as magnificent as a de Sainte-Coquille deserved), and she responded with, "Oh, doesn't your __maid__ buy them for you?" -

-he had to put an end to it.

"Margaret, please. I really am sorry that I offended you yesterday. I swear I didn't mean it as an insult, assuming you were a maid. In fact, I count my own maid as one of my closest friends."

"How was I __supposed__ to think you meant it? With your -" she flipped her hair behind her shoulder, and then flashed an impressively arrogant grin, complete with arched eyebrow. "Look, before I lived with Porco, some of the humans who would visit the Elven Kingdom were so..."

"Rude, I suspect? Or bossy? Oh, I know, condescending? Patronizing, perhaps?"

Margaret blinked at him, and Max couldn't help but be pleased at causing her such incredulity.

"I've heard stories, Margaret. Plenty of them, from __friends.__" He emphasized the word again. He hadn't heard so much from Cecilia in this case, but from Jake and Egan. "Again, I sincerely apologize if I hurt you yesterday. It's just all the elves I __do__ know work in some sort of service trade. And all of them excel in it, which so I've heard __you__ do with music." Ah, the swift one-two combination of apology __and__ compliment.

"Oh, uh, thanks." Finally, her lips hinted at the smile that Max had seen upon the first instance they met, before it'd all gone downhill. And it was quite an attractive smile, he had to admit with more than a pinch of guilt.

Max really did wonder how anyone, human or otherwise, could stand to be so unthinkingly inconsiderate to Margaret, or any other elves – it hurt __him__ to be lumped in with that group. Even Jake in all his bitterness didn't deserve some of the cruelty that Max had heard their kind had been shown.

"Were they really that awful to you, Margaret?"

"Not...I guess not __awful__, but after a while it just got...to be a real pain, you know? And it wasn't always intentional, like they just didn't know better, but they could be really demanding sometimes! Wanted me to play what they wanted instead of...whatever I felt inspired to play at the time. Because I was __just an elf__, there for their entertainment. Not...not __everyone__ was like that though. Porco, for one..." She trailed off without elaborating, her gaze averted as if she feared she had already shared too much. "So when you just came up all, 'Do this, do that', I would have thought someone from Porco's family would be less...less -"

Max supplied what he was fairly certain was the end of that sentence. "Of a 'supreme jerk'?"

She gave a tiny laugh. "Yeah. At least you can admit it.~ That's the first step."

"Well, then the second step will be reiterating that I truly am sorry. Can we start over?" The spring breeze was whipping up, and forced Max to tuck his hair back in a similar fashion to how Margaret had criticized him for just a minute ago. "You are the reason I've come to Selphia after all."

"...__What__?! Er, I mean, why__me__? I thought you were here to visit Porco."

Max gave a short laugh at Margaret's reaction. So charming, her humility - a trait he'd never practiced much, himself. "Not __you__ specifically. I am here to see Porcoline, yes, but my friend Barrett said I should hear you play – or, he said I should hear the musician at the restaurant play. He hadn't given me a name or species to go with that title."

"Oh..." she said quietly.

"You sound as if that's __strange__, a person wanting to hear music from a __maestro__ such as yourself."

"No, but no one actually visits the restaurant, let alone Selphia, __for__ that. They usually come for Porcoline's food and I'm just there...for ambiance."

"As a happy diversion? Someone to set the mood around them, but not to inspire __their__ mood, right?" Like all the other musicians at the numerous __fêtes __Max had attended throughout his life, who played for those who had only a superficial appreciation. He always made it a point to thank them for their contribution to the evening, and whether they accepted his words as genuine or not was up to them.

"Yeah...that! That's...that's a good way to describe it - or, how...it feels, sometimes." She stared at him for a few beats, a sort of curiosity taking over her expression. "How did you get so..._in touch_ with music? You're pretty good, at least, from what I heard."

"Self-taught." Max felt an unfamiliar emotion creep up: embarrassment. Both he and Rosalind had always been capitivated with subjects that many considered more appropriate for the opposite gender; himself with music, and Rosalind with science and medicine. Thank goodness they'd had so many people in Alvarna on their sides, such as Father, Ray, Cecelia, and Kyle. When it came to those they associated with in the rest of Norad, there was far less support.

His embarrassment was for naught, as Margaret grinned broadly. "Really? That's...wow! I don't know many... people who are that dedicated to music."

Max knew what her little pause was for – that by __people__ she meant humans, as elves usually had a natural proclivity in one sort of talent, be it creative or practical. But they'd moved past the whole elves versus humans topic, and he meant to keep it that way.

"Yes! I've always considered myself a connoisseur of the finest music, and I'm proud that my daughter has followed in my footsteps. Becoming quite the little Vach herself." Embellishment, sure, but a permissible, harmless one!

"You...have a daughter?"

"Yes, her name's Leann. She's ten, so Porcoline's never met her. She's..." Ah, how could he put it? "She's a great many things, and enjoys a great many things, too. Like fashion, music as I said. __Boys__, unfortunately. And she's so smart, top of her class. Spoiled too, which is my fault, and I'll be doing nothing to abate that by picking her up a few gifts while I'm here."

Margaret turned to glance at the general store that was behind her, off in the distance, which she'd failed to tell Max anything about other than that it was currently open. "You think you'll find something here to her liking? The general store's good for cooking ingredients and stuff like that but I don't know how much they have for presents, especially for...someone in __your__ family."

"I think I will find something __perfectly__ to her liking, Margaret. I really do." Max unveiled the disarming smile he'd been waiting to use, and was not the least bit surprised that he received one in return.


	3. chorus

iv. ****Sforzando ****_– ___struck with sudden, marked emphasis__

* * *

It was good to see a familiar face again, even if that face was fighting off a smirk as Max recanted the events of the past twenty-four hours.

"So, really, Barrett, if you'd have just provided me a __tad__ more detail about Margaret, you would have saved me a great deal of..." Max paused, searching for the correct term. Not __frustration __exactly, no...nor confusion.

"Making-an-idiot-of-yourself?" Barrett offered, before taking a bite of the dinner Porcoline had somehow managed to whip up for the two of them.

"A de Sainte-Coquille does not ever make an idiot of themselves, thank you." They don't admit to it, anyway.

"Sounds like it to me."

Max frowned, resisting the urge to try and dissuade Barrett from his (incorrect) opinion, a pointless undertaking if there ever was one. "Well, __whatever __it sounds like to you, the point __is__ we've made...some sort of amends. A bump in the road, but a minor one. I can safely say I foresee needing only a couple more days, tops, to warm up this Margaret before extending her an invitation to Alvarna."

"Hey, whatever." Barrett's ability to sound neutral about __everything__ was astounding. "This is your thing, not mine. You're the one who's so stuck on this music curriculum thing."

"And yet, here you are, ready to help me." Directing a knowing look at Barrett, Max took a sip of his grape liqueur.

"Hmf, I was going to be here anyway, so why not. What's one day early?"

Barrett's gruff exterior was all show. Nothing meant more to him than his students; anything that would enrich their education was important to him, even if it was subjects in which he had no personal vested interest.

That, and whether or not Barrett would ever admit it, he and Max were friends; you didn't spend two-plus decades living on the same lane as someone without forming __some__ sort of rapport, no matter how jarringly opposite your personalities were.

Ever since the days Julia had passed on, Barrett's attitude towards Max had never wavered; he was as standoffish, dry, and brutally honest as he'd always been. So many of the other townsfolk didn't know what to say to Max, and neither did Barrett, but neither did he pretend to. If Max would have been permitted to discuss the true events surrounding Julia's death with anyone other than his immediate family, Barrett would be the most suitable person to confide in.

However, he __wasn't__ allowed (and who dictated such rules? Well, no one. It just...such a delicate topic __shouldn't__ be discussed, was all), so it didn't matter. So Barrett's candidness lent itself to the perfect complementary edge Max could sharpen his wit upon.

"You know, Barrett, I'm sure even __you__ could learn a thing or two from Margaret. Wouldn't that be fun? Being one amongst your own pupils?" Max said, thinking on how happy Barrett's own son Leonel would be to see his father as a fellow classmate.

"Yeah, I'm sure I'd be a real whiz." Barrett picked at the fried veggies surrounding his grilled salmon.

"Well, we could start you on something simple, like the kazoo or triangle."

Barrett grumbled something (likely profane) Max couldn't hear, not just because of his naturally lower voice but because at that moment, a handful of Selphians came filing through the entrance, chatting and laughing gaily with one another. Max recognized them by face, but didn't have names to place with them, although he assumed one of them was Clorica.

"Guess that's our cue to get outta here." Barrett nudged his plate aside and rose from his chair.

"Oh, no no no. Porcoline invited us to attend-" Max stood too, motioning to the group seating themselves. "- tonight, and attend we shall. This birthday party for the lovely Miss Clorica." The lovely Miss Clorica whom Max had never met for a second in his life.

"No." Barrett made to back away, but Max rounded the table and grabbed his friend by the upper arm.

"Yes! Come along, Barrett. It's been so long since we've done anything fun together."

Barrett shook off Max's hold. "You and I have never done anything 'fun' together."

"Yes, and whose fault is that? Come now, don't you want to have something __interesting__ to tell Leonel about when you get back to Alvarna?"

With one critical strike, he who wielded a thousand excuses against social interaction had been defeated, and begrudgingly followed Max over to the table full of Selphians.

* * *

A seasoned veteran of parties and all other kinds of gatherings, Max had no problem inserting himself into the festivities for Miss Clorica, taking care to introduce himself (and Barrett, who'd apparently not even bothered to learn half their names) to each and every one of the townspeople who circulated in and out of the restaurant throughout the evening.

As he did, Max was reminded in many ways of all his Alvarnan friends, with just hownotably different they were, yet all sharing an obvious affinity for one another. Comparing them to his friends in Alvarna made it even more effortless on his part to create a memorable first impression, something he'd never any issue with (until yesterday, that is) to begin with.

Clorica was a very lucky young lady, showered with every sort of present imaginable, from books to sweets to a fluffy pillow with a (rather sloppy) embroidered C on it, courtesy of Xiao Pai. The grandest gift of all came in the form of her mentor, Volkanon, revealing he would be taking her and her compatriot Vishnal on a day trip to the Capital tomorrow, on her actual birthday.

Max, charitable person that he was, gave her 500 G spending money from his own pocket, adding posthaste that it was from both himself and Barrett, since Barrett was otherwise occupied, slouched in his chair as he slowly, methodically broke apart a dinner roll and ate it piece by piece.

After an hour or so passed, Max decided he would have to find some way to repay Barrett for sticking around for so long, as honestly it wasn't his intention to do so either. Specifically, he was waiting for Margaret to make an appearance; she __had__ admitted before they parted ways that she'd written a song for Clorica, for the girl's birthday, and Max took this to mean she would be be playing it here, tonight.

Certainly, he was content with listening to her play whatever she'd like, on any other night, but a composition that she'd written herself, and for a friend? Max considered himself to have an ear for learning songs, but __writing __ones were above and beyond a level of creativity he could fathom. Such an ability was innate, not something that could be taught, and he'd never actually known anyone personally with such a talent.

Soon after Porcoline departed to the bathhouse with Lin Fa and Xiao Pai, the one person who Max had been waiting for arrived at last. With her arm hooked in that of a serious-looking young woman outfitted in knight's armor and a warm smile rounding her cheeks, was Margaret.

It was another ordeal altogether to find the chance to speak with Margaret, as she spent the better part of the next hour all but sewn to the side of her knight friend, Forte as they and Clorica chatted about – well, whatever it was girls chatted about. So Max instead found himself over by the kitchen counter, regaled with the exceptionally detailed life history of Vishnal, after making the mistake of asking the butler-in-training just what it was about the occupation that appealed to him so much.

Finally, Forte and her younger brother wandered over to a hulking mountain of a man who had just entered, and Max excused himself from Vishnal's verbal autobiography, hastening away to make Margaret all his.

Quickly, he picked up a fruit tart from the spread of snacks, wrapped it in a napkin; he'd seen Margaret eat at least three of them so far. Then he approached her, all nonchalant confidence, and extended the dessert to her. "So we meet again."

"Hey!...Oh, thanks~!" Immediately she took the tart from him, and Max noticed the folio in her one arm, clutched possessively against her person. She bit into the tart, swallowed, and asked, "Did you find everything you wanted at the flower shop?"

After their productive conversation, Margaret had left Max at the flower shop. There he'd found an assortment of dried flowers crafted onto various decorations and accessories. He'd purchased a few flower crowns made of dried Toyherbs, for Leann and his nieces, and to replace the bouquet of Moondrops resting by Julia, that would surely be wilted by the time he returned.

"I did, thank you for asking. Might I ask what you have there?" He nodded to the folio she was holding so desperately.

"Oh, it's just my gift to Clorica." Margaret's smile was sheepish, her blonde fringe falling in front of her eyes as her head tilted down slightly.

"Is that right? Well, oughtn't you give it to her?"

"I can't right __now__, it's..I don't want to play it in front of all these people. Maybe after some of them leave." She finished off her tart, wiping at her mouth with the napkin.

"I'm sure it's plenty presentable for the masses. It can't be any worse than those detestable cookies that Vishnal fellow - " he gestured to the blue-haired butler, who was now with Forte and her company. "-gave her. They looked more like the wretched insect skins my young neighbor used to collect. Besides – and this is just my observation - I don't think you would have brought it along if you didn't intend to play it for her."

Concern still edged Margaret's voice, even though she tried to play it off with a faint laugh. "Well, __yeah,__ but since I've been here, I just thought of all this stuff I can change to make it better, and I don't know if-"

Oh, enough already! Time for an impromptu audition.

"Clorica!" Max called over to the butler, who was standing over by the stairs with Volkanon and the elderly shopkeeper from the general store. She blinked at him dazed, as if he'd just woken her up – which, literally, he had. "Margaret wants to give you her gift!"

"Wh-! Stop!" Margaret grasped at his sleeve.

"Yayy~!" Clorica lit up with childlike glee. "Meg, what did you get me?"

Margaret didn't answer straight away, giving Max a look that wasn't a glare, but wasn't exactly friendly either.

Then she looked back at Clorica. "I..." She stepped away from Max, towards the piano. "How about I just play it for you?"

* * *

The song, as Max might have predicted if he were to pin a style of music to Clorica, was a soothing nocturne, one with a dream-like melody flowing impeccably over warm, muted bass tones. It was intoxicating, really, and Max watched, fixated, on how Margaret's fingers so gracefully traversed the keys. It was as if she were a mechanical invention, just wound up and let go, playing the song like clockwork without the slightest effort.

Of course, no machine could add half as much sentiment to a piece as Margaret did. Regrettably, he chose to glimpse at her face as she was immersed in the song, and was struck by how appealing... no. Gods, he couldn't__...of all things...__no.

Thankfully, the piece decrescendoed to its conclusion, and a thin layer of applause replaced it.

"Wow, Meg, that was...the best! You really wrote it just for me?" Clorica's face was the very picture of joy, her smile lively and bright, much unlike her demeanor.

"Heh, I'm glad you liked it.~" Oh, what a juxtaposition Margaret was, so passionate about her craft and yet so __humble__. How very mysterious.

"Could you...keep playing?" Clorica asked. "Your music makes me feel so...__good__ inside."

Margaret stilled with apprehension, save for her eyes traveling about the room searching the faces of the other attendees of the party. There were murmurs and hums of assent, though Max wasn't among them. Of course, he __wanted__ to hear more; who in their right mind wouldn't? But given what she'd confided in him earlier, about how she'd been ordered about while in the Elven Kingdom, he would tread cautiously; he'd show that he wasn't here to command her inspiration on his whim, but that he really __did__ respect it - her, and what she could offer.

With a deep breath, Margaret launched into a soaring rhapsody that, from the first note, tugged on his heart with an unnameable sensation - but one that Max knew should be swallowed down. So he took a long, __long__ sip of wine, and did just that.

* * *

The music shifted from an entertaining sonatina to a more classical, formal waltz, and Max checked in with his stoic colleague. "See, Barrett? Isn't this fun, just like I promised?"

"Yep. Tons."

With a little assistance from the goblet of wine resting beside his slice of marble cake, Max trusted that yes, Barrett __was__ having fun, as much fun as Barrett could have.

"Good, good." Max refilled his own wine, watched Margaret for another minute or two before speaking to Barrett again. "She's splendid, isn't she?"

"No shit, I told you about her." Barrett maintained a deep, personal connection with his cake, scraping at the frosting with his fork.

"__Language,__ Barrett. And __you did__, but I'm merely restating it – you should take it as a compliment, that I'm agreeing with your assessment. You know, you could stand to be a bit more...__enthusiastic__ about this, since you __are __here. Show your appreciation, all that."

Almost on cue, the waltz concluded, and Barrett, looking Max right in the eye, set his fork down and slow-clapped until Max hissed at him, "Oh, __be that way__."

Out of the corner of his eye, Max caught the large form of Volkanon steering a slumped Clorica to her seat; it appeared the birthday girl had fallen asleep mid-waltz, though her body continued to sway in rhythm to the song.

Clorica slumped forward, her head falling into her crossed arms, giving no acknowledgement to Volkanon admonishing her, that she wouldn't have anywhere to lay her head tomorrow while they strolled about the Capital.

A young woman with a long swishing braid came racing through the front door and up to Clorica's side, shaking her awake by the shoulder. "Hey hey! Sorry, I'm late, I had a case to crack: The mystery of the missing birthday gift!"

Max recognized the newcomer from earlier in the day; Illuminata, the proprietor of the flower shop where Max had purchased the first of surely to be many souvenirs.

From behind her back, Illuminata produced a small, neatly wrapped box. "It was hidden so well that even I, the Amazing Illuminata, had to search high and low for it!"

Illuminata's bragging reminded Max of Alicia and her aspirations of fortune-telling. Her prophecies always came true based on a little __intervention__, which he hypothesized might also be the case for Illuminata's second career as a detective.

"Oooh!" Clorica's droopy eyes widened. "I'm glad you...solved it, Lumie. You're a -" she stifled a yawn before carefully unwrapping the present. "- a real great detective. Oh...! It's so pretty!" Clorica removed a small bejeweled brooch wrought in the shape of a Pink Cat flower.

"Very fetching indeed, Miss Illuminata." Max agreed from his spot, inclining head to her. "It's good to see you again. "

Illuminata let out a cheery little laugh. "Hey, you're the one who bought the Toyherbs! Porco's cousin or something! Matt!"

Across from him, Barrett gave a snort of laughter, the only one aware of how much Max __abhorred __when someone forgot his name. __Really__, was it too much to ask for?

"No, no. It's Max. With an X." He wagged a disapproving finger at her, his smile tight and his eyes hooded. "As in 'x-cellent', 'x-quisite', or 'x-treme.'"

"Or 'x-hausting," Barrett put in, deadpan.

Max paused to give Barrett a very pointed look, then turned back to Illuminata.

"Do you dance, Miss Illuminata?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Because Barrett here was __just __telling me how much this song makes him want to __get up and dance__, but, alas, he doesn't have a delightful lady to accompany him."

"I don't dance." Barrett immediately responded to the both of them, hand tightening around his fork, as if expecting to have to defend himself.

"Aha! A likely story! You just haven't had the right partner!" With deceptive ease, Illuminata yanked Barrett's fork away and all but wrenched him from his seat. "I'll get to the bottom of this!"

Max couldn't hear Barrett over the clever scherzo Margaret was playing, but he could very distinctly see his friend mouth the words "Eat shit, de Sainte-Coquille," as Illuminata led them off to the floor

Satisfied with his victory, Max picked up the plate Barrett had left behind; he would have his cake, and eat it too.

As he would have expected from Porcoline, the cake was delicious. But two bites in, a certain disgust snuck its way into his thoughts. Julia's voice complaining about how __fattening __cake was, how bad for the skin chocolate was. Not that he cared, nor suffered any of these adverse effects, but __oh__, the way she carried on about it!

Enough that Leann on her __eighth__ birthday had wrinkled her nose and parroted the same words when Cecilia had been so kind as to bake her sugar cookies.

Max gave himself something else to focus on while eating by studying the others at the table. On the opposite end sat Doctor Jones and his wife, Nancy, who'd been at the party since soon after it started. With all the people who'd been milling about, Max hadn't the opportunity to speak with them past greeting, or even get much of a look at them, but now they were impossible to miss, for more than one reason.

An odd, unsettling feeling took hold of Max, his senses so suddenly heightened. He could __taste __the combination of chocolate and a revolting sourness that was rising up his throat. Could distinctly __hear__ the beginning of the common Elven ballad Margaret was playing, its tender melody and the Elven lyrics that he didn't know by heart, exactly, but knew the general meaning of.

Nancy's hand folded into Jones's arm and he led her to the floor. The doctor's hands firmly held onto his wife's waist as her arms slipped about his neck, and Max could __see__ so plainly – so __horribly__ plainly – how in love they were.

And he hated them for it.

His gaze remained glued on the couple, as Nancy tilted her head in, whispered something to Jones that made him laugh lightly – and an image flickered in Max's mind, one of many that (he thought) he'd locked away because they served him no benefit. The same song playing at Cecilia and Jake's wedding reception; Julia dancing with him, absolutely stunning in her bridesmaid dress, so vibrant, one of the few days he remembered her as such – and the last day that her and Max __weren't__ a couple.

Nancy pressed a soft kiss to Jones's cheek as the song ended – just as Julia had done to him, before asking if maybe this could be the first of many dances.

The scar that Max __thought __had healed was slashed open, bleeding devastation and bleeding __fast__.

For all his connections, for all his money and influence, Max would never be able to acquire what was right in front of him. Just like the stereotypical spoiled brat label he'd fought so hard against, Max had not ever, and __still __could not, handle being unable to get what he wanted, when he wanted it.

And right now, and __every day__, all he wanted was to have Julia back.

In a most un-de Sainte-Coquille-like manner, Max stabbed his fork straight down into the remaining chunk of cake, and all but tossed the plate back onto the the table, that it landed with a clatter and nearly slid off the opposite edge.

He broke for the stairs, was a few steps up when he heard Barrett's voice from behind him, felt a hand roughly grab at his elbow. "Hey. Max."

Max took another step up, hoping his lack of response spoke loudly enough, but Barrett's grip only tightened. "What's your deal? What happened to havin' 'fun' together?"

It was a lame attempt at playfulness, and Max internally cursed Barrett for choosing __now __to make such an attempt.

He twisted away more forcefully this time, the momentum of breaking away causing him to trip sideways onto the landing separating the two flights. From his new seat, Max stared up at Barrett's confused face, and hoped that Barrett would understand by his own expression that any sarcasm would not be tolerated.

"Hey," Barrett repeated, frozen in place a few steps below him. "Are you...okay?" His hesitance disclosed that he knew he wasn't asking the right question, but apparently didn't know what the right one __was__.

Staggering to his feet, Max spat out his answer in tone far more vicious than anyone else would risk taking with Barrett. "__Yes. __Just leave me be."

He didn't wait for a reply, hurrying the rest of the way up to his room and fumbling to lock the door behind him.

Sitting in the nearest chair, he chastised himself for acting like such a __juvenile__, so __stupidly. __How could he let jealousy, or whatever the hell it was, overtake him, on __any __night, but tonight? Surrounded by pleasant company and in the midst of a joyous occasion?

And after doing so well, too! The townspeople (in both towns), Porcoline, even Barrett were convinced Max de Sainte-Coquille was nothing if not __okay__.

But no, __fool that he was__, he'd let it slip. Anyone could have and likely __had __seen him make an idiot of himself, not but a few hours after staking the claim that de Sainte-Coquilles did not act in such an inappropriate manner.

For an indeterminable time, Max sat at the desk, heels of his hands dug into his eyes as he breathed in, breathed out, and again, and once more and once more. Through the silence, the echos of the piano wound up the stairs and under his locked door. The tranquility of the song fought away the boldfaced resentment that was completely uncalled for on his part.

That peacefulness settled upon him, __into__ him, and Max finally lifted his head, only to spot a leather-bound journal resting but a few inches from where his elbows were planted. He examined it, finding it to be blank – perhaps left behind by a previous visitor? Max didn't know, nor particularly care; he was only incredibly thankful that it __was __there.

Clarity. In all these years, he'd never been able to describe what music provided him with, and maybe clarity wasn't __all__ it gave him, but in this moment it did. Enough that he had __an idea__, of what he could do instead of sitting here like a pathetic, woebegone __mess__.

Picking up a pen laying nearby, he began to write.

First he wrote of the day that had been - of what was currently happening, Clorica's party. Then, of Margaret; of her remarkable talent and how he was equal parts awestruck and envious of how she could so flawlessly meld so many emotions together into one song. And on he continued, with useless made-up filler about __why __it'd been so long since he'd seen Cousin Porcoline.

Max tried to listen for the music from downstairs, but the only noise was frantic buzzing from his overworked brain filled his ears, along with the return of his own shaky breath – and this time, an itching in his eyes accompanying a knot in his throat.

No, no.

****'****_**_**UNACCEPTABLE**_**_****'****

he scrawled in huge, slanting letters over his latest paragraph, where he noticed a significant decline in the quality of his penmanship.

He would have to start over, and again if needed, until it was enough. Until he'd written so much about how __great __he was, how __fine __he was, that he wasn't just writing it, he was __sure __of it, as he'd always been so sure of the trajectory his life would take until it'd been upended by Cammy bursting in the front door of the manor and wailing incoherently.

Tearing out the previous page, he was faced with a blank one, and no clue what he was __going __to write. That is, how his pen would keep up with all that he wanted to say. Yet, he pressed the nib to the paper and started anyway, focusing on maintaining both a steady breath and hand.

__Hi, I'm Max de Sainte-Coquille. I'm recording my name in memory of my first visit here. Make sure you don't forget it! That's Max, with an X (for X-TREME) de Sainte-Coquille...__

On and on he wrote, countless paragraphs that became pages, every one of them in an impeccable script and error-free spelling, only pausing every so often for the splittest of seconds to errantly wipe at his cheek, to keep any tears from staining the paper.

He wrote about the __wonderful __food Porcoline served that Father would devour faster than any of his eating contest times; about the __fabulous__ weather he could imagine Rosalind taking Sera and Serena out for a stroll in; about the lovely people who Leann would find positively enchanting, and whom she would charm in return.

Throughout his entire exposition, the main theme he circled back to was how he, as any de Sainte-Coquille ought to be given their lavish, privileged lifestyle, was completely and utterly __fine__.

Because Julia, until the end - she'd been __fine__, she promised him, no matter how many times he asked, up until that evening she'd gone over the bathhouse to help Cammy close up. She'd been so frightfully pale and fragile, more than ever, and Max had asked her, was she sure she was... __able__ to help Cammy? And she'd assured him, one last time, that she was __fine__.

Thus it became an endless loop in his mind.

He ceaselessly clung to that belief – that Julia wasn't in the same emotional and mental pain that she must have been in physically as the last threads of her life unraveled. He __had to __hold so desperately to that mindset or the grief would usurp it, drive him to sheer madness, because the words and hugs - they just weren't enough, not when they were for the accident that wasn't an accident at all.

For himself. For Leann. He would be okay, be fine, even when he wasn't.

And what's more, anyone who __dared __question him on his behavior tonight need simply look to these pages, where it was forever preserved how __absolutely perfectly fine __Max de Sainte-Coquille was. They could pick apart every last sentence of every last paragraph and come away none the wiser that throughout this night, while everyone else carried on dancing and laughing, Max de Sainte-Coquille was drowning under sorrow and heartbreak, not at all fine in the least.


End file.
